stare at one arm of the ceiling fan, orbit orbit orbit.
slow time down until you feel like speeding it up again.
your sadness is the paler underside of the leaves
that we never get to see unless the wind blows west.
finding ourselves lost in our own houses, touching all the
walls and yearning for a doorknob that will turn.
grasping for a key that you once kept
on the very top of the bookshelf, but your fingers come
back to you empty and covered in dust. this isn't home anymore,
this body isn't mine any longer. with its carpel tunnel
and wired jaw, and a backbone that won't lay flat.